


Merely an Amateur

by radculas



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Case Fic, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Murder Mystery, Origin Story, Paternal Lestrade, Pilot!Sherlock, Pre-Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Serial Killers, Sherlock Being an Asshole, Torture, Violence, shut up anderson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-05-13 06:43:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5698819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radculas/pseuds/radculas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Origin story of how Sherlock Holmes came to work with Scotland Yard.<br/>Greg Lestrade is newly promoted to Detective Inspector at the Homicide and Serious Crime Command.<br/>A serial murder investigation leads to one problematic young man of the name, Sherlock Holmes.<br/>They must work together to find a serial killer without pissing off half of Scotland Yard. The latter part of the task is the hardest part.<br/>(Sherlock in the image of the pilot episode. Massive face-off with Anderson ensues.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Inspector Lestrade took a sip of coffee from his thermos, blinked several times and tried to wake himself up. It was goddamn 3 in the morning. He just wanted to drive back home and sleep beside his wife. The detective turned off the engine and shook his head. _Stop whining, this is a crime scene._ He took a deep breath and placed the thermos back into the holder.

A uniformed officer who Lestrade didn't recognize ran up to him.

"Detective Inspector,"

Lestrade nodded curtly in reply.

"So, where's the body?"

Several cruisers were already stationed around Lestrade's car. The whole road was blocked. The officer gestured toward a wall of blue sheets set up in the middle of the road like a curtain to hide the body. Not that there were any curious passerby at this time. Lestrade saw a black Honda Accord parked not so far down the street. A man who seemed to be the driver was sitting on the curb while one of the officers questioned him.

"He got out of the car as soon as the vehicle bumped over an unknown object. He immediately called the police when he saw what it was."

Lestrade frowned and flashed an expression of annoyance.

"Seems like a typical car accident to me? Why did you call me?"

The officer coughed in his fist.

"Well, the body had some unusual characteristics which might have something to do with your case. I just wanted you to check."

The hairs on the back of Lestrade's neck prickled with anticipation.

"If we're wrong then I apologize in advance for calling you out at such an ungodly hour."

The Detective Inspector nodded and swiftly weaved through the bustling forensics team. The uniformed officer followed. The body was of a male’s and lying on its stomach, stark naked. A wheel mark of the Accord was etched across its pale-blue back, but didn't look as nearly as painful as the other injuries inflicted on the body. There were several gashes on his shoulders, back of his knees, a dark bruise around the neck, and a large portion of his skin on his hip and arms were missing. They were cut out neatly so the red flesh looked like a bracelet wrapped around the arm, and the scar on the hip looked like a stencil art of a cat. Finally, there was a bullet wound on the back of his head. Lestrade didn't need to flip the body over to check the rest of the details. He recognized the pattern. Lestrade shivered and turned to the officer.

"Thanks for calling."

He’s never led a serial murder investigation before. It was his first time to encounter a murder as bizarre as this throughout his entire career, in fact. Lestrade crouched beside the body and bit his lower lip. A pair of leather shoes appeared beside him. Lestrade looked up to see a heavily bearded face of Sergeant Anderson from forensics team.

"Not much I can do here, Sir. It's the first time we ever found one on the road."

Lestrade nodded in agreement. Usually, the victims were abandoned in the corner of unpopular parks, vacant alleyway, or public restrooms. This is the first time ever to find a body in a completely open space. Could it be that the murderer was breaking the pattern or was it a work of a mad copycat?

"Send it to full autopsy right away."

The Detective Inspector didn't have high hopes with the autopsy results though. It would just leave him to another dead end. No prints, no DNA, no nothing. He would receive a lengthy report on the victim's health conditions and a thorough ballistics analysis. So far he found no link between all the murder victims. They had different occupations, family background, and age group. Lestrade scrunched up his face. He hated random killers. They were so hard to catch.

Next, Lestrade turned his attention to the driver who found the body. He strolled up to the weary looking middle-aged man and greeted him politely. The interview was quite simple; a standard procedure which Lestrade was all too familiar with. He executed it briskly, knowing that the driver was quite innocent, worn down, and tired. Then, he had him escorted to the station for proper interviewing and documentation. He apologized for the trouble.

"It won't be long, sir. I promise." The driver threw a very cross look at Lestrade but climbed into one of the police cars.

…

"So, not letting me out, are you?" The lanky young man leaned against the cell door and slurred.

His head drooped forward dangerously and bumped into the small barred window painfully. The man didn't seem to notice the pain. He grumbled something inaudible and stared at the constable.

"I'm sorry, but it's not going to happen." The constable shook his head and stifled a yawn. It was almost dawn. "The test results are clear as crystal. You'll have to face the charges."

"No one's bailing me out?"

"I'll tell you when you do."

"No need. I'm sure he won't let me out for a while. To teach me a lesson." The man shrugged and slouched back to the bunk at the side of the cell.

"Who are you talking about?"

 No reply came back. The constable opened his mouth to say something but closed it. He wasn't here to hold a conversation with a junkie. The convict was probably too high to sustain a proper conversation anyway. The young man was lied down on his back and stared up at the ceiling. The officer shook his head. His job was done. The junkie was only a few years younger than the constable. He wondered what it must be like to have his life ruined by drugs at such a young age. He turned off the lights and went back to his station.

…

Lestrade scratched the back of his neck as he entered the autopsy room of St. Bart's. Dr. Gables was awaiting him. Lestrade marveled at the doctor. No matter when he visited him, the man had his slick, trim hair set neatly and didn't look even a bit tired. He was in his fifties, but his smile and the glint in his eyes were younger than that of Lestrade's. Dr. Gables loved his job. There was also a young woman in a lab coat standing beside Dr. Gables.

"Evening. Or morning, I don't know which."

 The doctor said jokingly and the two shook hands over the dead body on the table. Then, he gestured at the young mousy looking girl beside him. "This is our new intern, Molly Hooper. She's going to be working as my assistant for a while."

"Nice to meet you Detective Inspector, erm…"

"Lestrade"

Dr. Gables and Molly Hooper looked like exact opposites. Gables was well past his prime, yet he exposed a jubilant ray of joy and energy. On the other hand, Molly Hooper was so young, yet she looked tired and worried. Molly Hooper looked pale and her make-up was thin. It was apparent she had been forced to jump out of bed only a few hours ago. Still, she made an effort to flash a smile up at him. Lestrade laid his eyes on the body. The body had been thoroughly sliced open and stitched up neatly. There was a long Y-shaped stitch mark along either side of the victim's collar bone, which met up at the chest and ran down straight across the abdomen. At a table behind the two doctors was a sliced up heap of the victim’s insides.

"Did you find anything?"

"Well, we _did_  find something. Whether it's interesting or not is up to you." Lestrade furrowed his brow.

"What do you mean?"

"The victim had a serious liver problem and several of his other organs were suffering from minor tissue damages. The sort that you would find in a typical drug addict. This is his blood analysis."

Molly Hooper brought a clipboard from the nearby table and handed it to Gables, who flipped it over with a quizzical look to Lestrade.

"So he's a drug addict? Is that it?" Lestrade asked half disappointed.

"No, that's not it."

Lestrade who scanned the content of the analysis report. It was a list of substances that they found from his blood. Lestrade didn't recognize even half of it.

"Alphamethadol, 4-Methyl-aminorex, Naphyrone, and several other opioid stimulants were found. It was taken less than 12 hours before his death."

Lestrade shrugged and handed the clipboard back to Gables. The doctor shook his head and refused to receive the list.

"I'm not done yet. You have to understand that this drug is an incredibly unique and strong mix. Either he must have mixed it himself or he got it from a particular drug dealer. The latter is highly unlikely but if that is the case, it might make your job easier.What day is it?" Gabels suddenly asked.

"December 20th." Lestrade frowned.

"Well then, let's just say this is my early Christmas present to you." The doctor said merrily and handed another clipboard to Lestrade.

"Just a few hours ago, we received a request from the drugs directorate to do a blood analysis on a young man they caught in a possession of a drug. Here's the analysis of the substance he had in possession and his blood sample." Lestrade gazed down at it and blinked. "All three made a perfect match."

…

Lestrade contacted the drugs directorate and asked for the current whereabouts of this particular young man. They told him he was held custody at a police station nearby. Lestrade immediately climbed into his vehicle and started the engine. The sun was already rising from the horizon. Lestrade wasn't sleepy anymore. He was hyped up with adrenaline. He finally had a lead. Something to new to work on.

Police Constable Riley was alarmed when he received a call from a Detective Inspector in Homicide and Serious Crime Command.

"I don't know, Sir. He's heavily intoxicated. Not enough to be hospitalized though.”

"That's good enough for me. Wake him up, please." The voice said gruffly and the line went dead. Riley bolted from his chair and hurried to the cell number four. He turned on the lights and peeked into the barred window.

"Oi, Holmes, wake up. Someone wants to see you." The constable called out. The slender man cracked his eyes open and sat up groggily. He blinked several times and frowned.

"Already? Had Mycroft gone soft?"

…

Detective Inspector Tobias Gregson of the Serious and Organized Crime Command received a call on his mobile at dawn.

"Yeah?"

"It's Jones. Sorry to wake you up but we have an emergency situation." Gregson frowned and sat up. He ran a hand down his fair hair and got ready to climb out of the bed.

"What happened?"

"It's about Fred Porlock." Gregson noticed Jones's voice shaking slightly. "I just received notice from the surveillance team. He's been missing for the past 12 hours."

"What?" Gregson exclaimed and jumped out of bed. He stumbled towards his dressing closet. "What do you mean, missing?" He demanded as he grabbed a fresh pair of shirt.

Fred Porlock was a petty thief and a drug addict. He had recently gone under a witness protection scheme in return for his promise to testify against a drug trafficker.

"He went out for an evening stroll around four in the afternoon. He didn’t come back. We can't contact his mobile phone either."

"Why didn't I hear about this earlier?" He exploded as he pulled on his trousers.

"The team thought he would be back after a while. He does that occasionally. He goes for a stroll, disappears, and comes back after several hours saying that he felt like taking longer walks." Gregson swore under his breath. A lump formed in his throat.

"The surveillance team's been searching the perimeter for hours but they need reinforcements." Jones said wearily. "I'm sorry, Sir. I should have known."

"Take command of the situation until I arrive." Gregson ordered briskly and turned off the phone.

…

Detective Inspector Lestrade flipped through the documents he received from the drugs directory. The local patrol officer found a heavily drunk man on the road side at midnight. They questioned him but the man was unable to reply properly. Noting his unnatural behavior, they realized he wasn't a mere drunk. They searched his belongings and found a small plastic bag containing white powdery substance. They held him under arrest at the spot. The blood sample and the substance proved to be a mixture of several Class A and Class C drugs. Sherlock Holmes is now awaiting for a bailout or court trial.

The detective heard the door of the interviewing room opening. He looked up to see a haggard-looking, gaunt man dressed in slim jeans and dark blue open collar shirt. His hands were cuffed in front of him. Despite the young man's unstable footing and debilitated state, Lestrade noticed that there was something elegant about his face. Sherlock Holmes had sharp, light blue eyes and a prominent nose. His jaws were closed tightly and lips drawn into a straight line. His hair was chestnut brown with a slight curl around the tail and the ears. If Lestrade didn't know better, he would have believed that Sherlock Holmes was an innocent, pampered, Scouts boy. The kind Lestrade never got along with when he was in school. The detective inspector shook the thought away from his head. This man has been caught in possession of drugs three times already. So far he had managed to get away with all charges with just a minor fine. He must have hired a pretty darn good lawyer. That means his parents or something must be backing him up. What a spoiled kid. Sherlock Holmes sat in front of Lestrade. Constable Riley hovered at the door.

"Would you like something to drink, Sir?"

Lestrade turned to Riley and asked for two cups of coffee. Then, he leaned back on his chair and stared at the convict.

"My name is Detective Inspector Lestrade from the Metropolitan Police Service."

 A crooked smile broke across Holmes's face.

"Ah, the one from the Homicide and Serious Crime Command. What is a serial murder investigator doing here at a time like this? Found a new body, I presume?"

Lestrade stared back at bewilderment. At first he was surprised to find the man's voice lower than expected. Then, he was taken aback by his elegant manner of speech, which matched his intelligent facial features. Suddenly, Sherlock Holmes didn't look as young as Lestrade thought.

"Please, I read the papers, Detective Inspector." Holmes answered gleefully. Lestrade opened his mouth but he couldn't find the right words. The man's ostentatious attitude took him by surprise. He was only saved by Riley who entered the room and delivered them two cups of steaming hot coffee. The crispy smell wafted in the room and cleared the detective's head up. Lestrade thanked Riley politely and cleared his throat.

"I want to ask you some questions on how you obtained these drug of yours."

Holmes reached for the cup with his cuffed hands and raised a brow quizzically at Lestrade. The detective inspector didn't like the gesture at all. It felt as if he was being mocked.

"Interesting" There was a momentarily pause before the young man opened his mouth again.

"Either you found a similar batch at a crime scene or in one of the victim's body. I assume it's the latter. And considering the unconventional time of your visit," Sherlock Holmes lifted the cup carefully with his two hands and sipped the coffee. "You found the body somewhere around 2 or 3 in the morning. Am I right?"

Before Lestrade could stop himself, he was nodding. Holmes lowered the cup and leaned back on his chair. He scratched his cheek and sniffed before he bit his lip and furrowed his brow. He gazed at Lestrade with a studying look. Lestrade was simply paralyzed like a rabbit in the headlights.

"That means the body wasn't abandoned indoors. It had to be found somewhere people passed by twenty four seven. Possibly a public restroom." He narrowed his pale blue eyes. "No, all bodies in public restrooms were found between 6 to 10 in the evening. Then where else?"

The young man tapped his fingers on the table. Lestrade opened his mouth.

"No don't tell me." Sherlock Holmes said briskly. Lestrade glowered at him.

"I wasn't going to. Look, that's none of your business. I just want to know where you got your drugs."

He needed to regain control over this conversation. He had accidentally let Sherlock Holmes dominate the rally. Holmes didn't reply for a while. He aligned the tip of his fingers together neatly and drew it up to his chin.

 "Holmes,"

"The traffic." Sherlock smiled. Lestrade ignored the remark and pressed on.

"Tell me where-"

"Am I right?"

"You don't need to know."

"But I am right?"

"Look,"

" _Am I?_ " Sherlock Holmes demanded and leaned forward.

" _Yes._ " Lestrade paused to take a breath. "Now if you don't mind, I would like you to-"

"If you're hoping to identify the victim through the drug dealer, you're up to no luck."

"Why not?"

As he blurted automatically, Lestrade wanted to slap himself in the head. Sherlock Holmes was flinging him around all over the place. He was losing grip of his authority. He should have said something like, _that's for me to decide_. He couldn't believe that Sherlock Holmes was under the influence of drugs at the moment. Didn't Riley say that he was heavily intoxicated? Lestrade ran a hand over his face in frustration.

"Anonymous trade. I leave the money at a particular place. After a few days, I'll find the supply hidden in another different place. I never meet the dealers. Besides, there's a hierarchical system among the customers. The dealers rank us."

Lestrade expected Holmes to continue his explanation but the young man didn't say anything more. He simply looked back at him, expecting Lestrade to draw his own conclusions. Realizing that the detective inspector was incapable of doing so, the young man sighed, and rolled his eyes. Lestrade threw a look of resentment at him.

"The dealers categorize us according to the degree of addiction and financial capability. They are well-organized to prevent friction between the consumers and the suppliers. If one of the buyers demands for more drugs despite their financially incapability, the dealers refuse to sell them anything. In short, they collect money only from where they know there is one. No debts, no losses, no risks, and absolute profit. They occasionally assess their clients and when they find out that it's time for them to go, they break all contact with the buyer.Your victim and I probably have different dealers."

"You don't know that for sure. You use the same drug, and this is a very peculiar type."

"Yes, well, about that," Sherlock shifted in his seat. "I'm not listed very high up in their so-called ranks. I'm not a frequent user and I only buy in small quantities. My income isn't as hefty either. I'm just a small time client. On the other hand," Lestrade found himself leaning forward with anticipation. Sherlock Holmes smiled contently.

"The latest victim must be a very heavy user."

Lestrade tilted his head to one side questionably. How did he know that?

"It's true that he was a heavy addict but so are you." The detective reminded him.

"I'm not an addict. I only use them when I'm bored." Sherlock Holmes scoffed.

Lestrade didn't really get the difference but didn't bother to dig into the topic.

"Besides, this is the first time I used this mix." Sherlock shrugged. "And I regret it. It was too strong for me." He laughed weakly. "It's definitely for people who are more immune to stimulants. I'm sorry but your lead had just evaporated."

Lestrade slumped back on his chair and gulped down the remaining coffee. He didn't like Sherlock Holmes. Not one bit. He pelted Lestrade with irrelevant conversation and also delivered him a very disappointing news; another dead end.

"Unless," Holmes began hesitantly.

"What?" Lestrade demanded.

"I can direct you to its dealer."

"You just said that you never met them."

"Yes, but that doesn't mean I can't." Sherlock Holmes flashed a malicious smile at Lestrade.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Origin story of how Sherlock Holmes came to work with Scotland Yard.  
> Greg Lestrade is newly promoted to Detective Inspector at the Homicide and Serious Crime Command.  
> A serial murder investigation leads to one problematic young man of the name, Sherlock Holmes.  
> Sherlock is a junkie and Lestrade is a desperate detective with a bad smoking habit.  
> The two must work together to find a serial murderer without pissing off half of Scotland Yard. The latter part of the task is the hardest part.  
> (Sherlock in the image of the pilot episode. Massive face-off with Anderson ensues.)

Porlock shivered violently from fear and the cold. He couldn't see well in the dark but he was in an empty room with white walls and wooden flooring. There was a window behind him. It was a normal house, except it was bare and agonizingly cold. The door was right in front of him but the door knob was missing and bolted shut from the outside. Porlock's hands were chained behind his back and attached to the wall. Porlock was forced to sit cross-legged on the cold hard floor

After a while, he heard footsteps outside. Porlock held his breath. He heard the bolt slide. A whimper leaked from his mouth. He clenched his teeth to keep from chattering but it didn't work. The door cracked open and warm orange light leaked in. A pair or brown boots crept in. Through the narrow crack, Porlock could see a fireplace. It looked so warm and comforting.

"Please don't k-kill me." He stuttered.

Tears welled up in his eyes. The figure slipped into the room. He didn't even bother to close the door behind him. It was wide agape. Porlock tugged at the chains. The figure towered in front of him and cast a looming shadow over Porlock.

"I didn't say y-your name I swear, I only-" The figure crouched down in front of him.

Porlock was too afraid to meet the monster's eyes. He couldn't get himself to confront his assaulter. Tears ran freely down his cheeks.

"What are you talking about?" A voice said in a low rumble.

"You're not h-here to…? I thought you worked f-for- who are you?" Porlock blurted. He couldn't see the man's face. The light from the fireplace was too bright and he could only see the outline of his figure.

"I'm a nobody."

…

Lestrade strode out of the interviewing room and slammed the door behind him, leaving the young cheeky man at his seat.

"I'm done. Thanks for the time."

Riley nodded and escorted the detective inspector outside. When the officer returned to the interviewing room to collect Sherlock Holmes, he found the convict chuckling to himself buoyantly. He turned to Riley and gave a toothy grin. There was a half-deranged manic glint in his eyes that made Riley hesitate at the door.

Lestrade drove his car in a hurry to the New Scotland Yard. It was still early and the office was nearly empty. He saw a couple of people from the organized crime division pass by at the corridor, but the usual bustle hadn't started yet. As soon as he sat in front of his desk, he slumped across it with sheer exhaustion. He thought he had something. Sherlock Holmes blew his anticipation to smithereens. Lestrade wondered if he had made the right choice. He had turned down Sherlock Holmes's bizarre offer. Holmes was a frighteningly perspicacious man, that's for sure. But he was a completely mad junkie and a civilian. Lestrade sighed. He'll have to identify the body the usual way. He'll have to question for any witnesses and search the missing people's list. He hated wasting time like this. As he was running around trying to find out the name of this dead man, another person was getting tortured and killed by this crazy maniac.

Lestrade pulled out the past case files and flipped through them. All the victims suffered the same injuries. The gashes behind the knees, back, and a bruised neck which look like it was caused by strangulation. Several parts of their wrist, waist, and stomach had been skinned in an artistic pattern. Some were patterns of an animal like a bird or cat. Others were geometric patterns like a long chain of triangles. All of it reminded Lestrade of a tattoo art. _It's a mad man's work._

There was another curious thing about the bodies. The substance in their digestive system were all same. They consisted mostly of bread and oat meal. Unfortunately, none of this was hard to find at any supermarket in London. As with the location of the bodies, two were found in public restrooms, one in the corner of a park, a vacant warehouse, alleyway, and the latest one was abandoned boldly in the middle of the street. The bodies were scattered all over the city. Lestrade looked at the calendar on the wall. His early Christmas present from Gables had evaporated. Just then, Lestrade bolted up right in his seat. Shit, he almost forgot to buy his wife a Christmas present. In fact, he almost forgot about the holiday itself.

…

Porlock's only way of keeping track of time was from the light that leaked through the window. It was midday. He closed his eyes to rest. He stretched his legs so that his ankles touched the sunlight. The faint warmth was far from fulfilling. He was suffering from slight hypothermia. He was hungry, weak, and above all, confused. He wondered what the man was going to do to him. What did he want? Why was he here? What was the surveillance team doing? Didn't the police promise his safety in exchange of his testimony?

Just when he was about to doze off, the floorboard outside the door creaked and he heard the bolt slide. A familiar pair of boots entered the room. This time, he could see the man’s face clearly. He was tall with broad shoulders, dressed in dark long sleeves, and jeans. His hair was cropped short and his eyes were dark brown. The face showed no expression. He held a bowl in one hand. Porlock couldn't see what was inside it but saw steam wafting from it. His mouth watered. The man crouched down in front of him and offered him a spoonful of oatmeal. The captive took a bite without hesitation. The mysterious man didn't show any sign of emotions. He just fed him silently. Once the bowl was empty, a faint scream echoed from outside. Porlock stopped chewing.

"What was that?"

The ice cold room felt even colder all of the sudden. The man smiled back at him with glinting eyes.

…

It wasn't until mid-day when Sherlock was finally bailed out. Anthea was waiting beside a black, expensive-looking car. She opened the back door for him. Constable Riley seemed relieved to get rid of Sherlock. He shoved Sherlock’s coat at him and nodded at Anthea.

"Have a nice day." He said briskly.

Anthea climbed into the passenger seat without a word. She had her phone to her ear and handed it to Sherlock as soon as the car took off.

"Your brother would like to have a word with you." She said bluntly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took the phone reluctantly. Before he could greet him, Mycroft blurted,

"For god's sake, Sherlock, enough is enough!"

Sherlock didn't say anything. He just glumly stared out the window. "Do you have any idea how sad Mummy would be when she hears about this?"

Sherlock sighed.

"Not as sad as when you sent troops to the Iraq War, obviously."

There was a short, aggravated gawk from the other side of the line.

"I am serious, Sherlock. I’m only in a minor position in the government. I can't keep covering for you like this. Sooner or later you will have to face your charges properly. Mummy and I are seriously considering putting you into rehabilitation center for you to-" Sherlock attempted to pull the phone away from his ear when Mycroft yelled, "I’m not done yet, Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock grimaced and lifted the phone up to his ear again.

"There's no need for you to worry. I have everything under control."

"Well then at least get yourself a proper job. What do you do all day anyway? I thought you had a temporary job. Why did you quit?"

"Still snooping on me?" Sherlock scowled.

"And I will continue until you settle down." Mycroft spat.

"I  _have_ a job. I started my own business a few weeks ago. I couldn't stand the daily routine jobs."

There was a moment of silence.

"You're not really thinking of becoming a pirate are you?" The elder brother asked hesitantly.

"Mycroft, that was years ago." Sherlock glowered. "I’m a private detective."

"A what?"

"You heard."

"Sherlock, you can't be serious. What in the world are you planning to do? How are you supposed to make a living out of that?" Mycroft whined. Sherlock blinked.

"I've already had some clients. I have savings from my last job. It'll last until my business gets steady. I could share a flat to cut down the expenses too."

"And might I ask who in the world would share a flat with you?"

"There's always someone desperate enough." Sherlock shrugged. Mycroft let out a large sigh.

"Fine, but you'll have to explain properly to our parents at Christmas dinner. Speaking of which, don't forget it this time."

"Forget what?"

" _The dinner_."

The line went dead. Sherlock remembered last year when he had completely forgotten about the holiday gathering because he was too preoccupied with his experiments. Mycroft came barging into his flat late afternoon and dragged him out to his old house for an unpleasant family reunion. If Sherlock could come up with a convincing excuse, he wouldn't hesitate to use it, but Mycroft's snooping around made it impossible to avoid the event. He handed the phone back to Anthea. Oh goodness, he had to buy presents. But before that, he needed to drop by somewhere to buy a pack of cigarettes.

...

Lestrade held an investigation meeting that morning. He was completely worn down but he wanted to hear what everyone managed to gather so far. The results weren't very pleasant. The forensic team was hopeless. The autopsy report showed nothing in particular and the only lead they had was eliminated by Lestrade's investigation. No prints or dental records matched. They did a thorough check on the recent missing people’s list to no avail. Lestrade massaged his eyelids. He needed to sleep. He briskly told everyone to resume their investigation and dismissed the meeting. As he strode out of the building, he stuck his hands into his coat pocket to brace against the December chill. He frowned. He noticed an unfamiliar piece of paper in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it. It was neatly folded into half. It said,

_In case you changed your mind – SH_

Lestrade opened the paper hesitantly. A phone number was scribbled on it.

…

Sherlock's lips curved into a smile as he listened to the words from the other line. He took a long drag on his cigarette.

"Sure, I can get the name in a day." A moment of pause. "Well, I'm not the common wealth." He dropped the cigarette stub to the ground and crushed it with his foot.

"I'll call you when I have the name. Oh, and I need a photograph of the victim. I'd be happy if you e-mailed it to me."

…

Charles lifted his coat collar up against the icy gust and ducked into the building. It was an old flat with cracks and stains and few people lived here. He trotted up the dimly lit stairs and stuck a key to his door. William had lived in better places but didn't mind moving here. Despite the downgrade of his lifestyle, his salary has risen fashionably. He opened the door and reached for the lights. When he flicked it on, he yelped. There in the middle of the sitting room stood a tall salient man dressed in a long coat.

"Evening."

The intruder's eyes glinted. Charles took a step back.

"Please, have a seat." The stranger gestured toward the tattered couch as if this was his own house. Charles obeyed. His heart pounded. Was he a cop? The infiltrator clasped his hands behind his back and gazed down at Charles.

"It's quite a stock you have in there." He nudged his chin toward the kitchen. Charles' heart sank. "I wouldn't recommend stuffing that into the wall. The fresh patch of paint gives it away." The young man shook his head.

"What do you want?" Charles growled and slowly slid his hand in between the couch cushion. He kept a spare handgun there.

"If you're looking for your Browning, I have it." The voice said merrily and the man pulled a handgun from his pocket and weighed it in his right hand. "A cute gun for a drug dealer, don't you think?"

Charles bit the inside of his cheek. His other gun was in his car. The man emptied the magazine and threw it back to Charles. Then, he paced around the room, scanned the area, and then turned back to him. His sharp grey-blue stared as if it was trying to penetrate a hole through Charles. The man was way younger than him. He didn't look like a criminal but there was something discomforting about the man. It was as if he knew everything about Charles.

"You were assigned to this post just a week ago. Where is the last guy?"

"He's not here."

"I can see that."

The man stared down at Charles for what felt like an eternity before he broke his eye contact and stuck his hand into his inner pocket. He pulled out a photograph and showed it to Charles.

"Do you know who he is?"

Charles flicked his eyes up to the man nervously.

"Were you sent by Mr. Carter?"

"Yes." The slender man answered.

"Are you here to threaten me? If you think I'm-"

"I'm not accusing you of anything. I just want to find out where he lived."

"Well, sir, you're standing in the damn place."

…

Lestrade's mouth hung wide open when he received a call from Sherlock Holmes the next morning. He couldn't believe that Holmes managed to do his job so quickly. He thought the junkie was just exaggerating when he said that he could provide the body's name in a day.

"It was easy. But you shouldn't be surprised with that. There's something else."

"What?"

"I'm coming to your office."

Before Lestrade could reply, the line went dead. Lestrade slumped back in his chair and shook his head. He flipped through the file from the drugs directorate. _Who in the world was Sherlock Holmes?_ Occupation column was left blank. Was he a corrupt solicitor trainee or some kind of a rookie journalist?

Fifteen minutes later, Lestrade received a call from the front reception saying that there was a visitor for him. Lestrade sighed and allowed him in. His feelings lifted a little when he saw a trimly dressed man approach his office. Sherlock Holmes looked nothing like the bedraggled man he met yesterday. He was still pale but looked healthier. His strides were confident and swift.  _I'd go with the solicitor theory._ Lestrade sized Holmes up in his head. He opened his office door and beckoned Holmes inside before any of his investigation team witnessed the unfamiliar visitor. Lestrade gestured Holmes to sit in front of his desk. Holmes obliged.

"Well?" Lestrade said as soon as he took a seat. "Surprise me." Holmes placed a memo in front of him.

"That's the address of his residence. And his name is John Douglass. His occupation," Holmes cleared his throat. "Is a small time drug dealer." Lestrade flung his gaze from the memo to the man's face.

"What?"

"He's not a customer. He ran away with loads of supply and disappeared about two weeks ago. The branch lost a lot of money. Apparently, those higher up decided to go on a man-hunt for Douglas but they couldn't find him. A different man called Charles Dale is assigned as a new dealer and he's currently living where Douglas used to. He thinks I was a messenger sent by this man called  _Mr. Carter_. I showed him that photo you gave me and he got shaken up quite badly."

"Jesus, how did you even find Dale?" Lestrade gaped.

"Easy, I went to my usual 'payment area' and placed ten times the usual amount of money and a note asking for more of these mixes. You know, the one I was caught with. I knew that my dealer didn't have the stock. He only handles minor cocaine users like me.”

Lestrade winced.

"You are aware that cocaine is illegal and you're talking to a police officer right now?"

Sherlock shrugged carelessly and opened his mouth to continue his explanation.

"I knew that as soon as my dealer receives the money and the note, he would contact a different dealer. All I had to do was tail the man and wait. That was the tricky part. I had my homeless network to back me up with that."

"What's that?"

"A group of homeless people I hire to gather information from time to time."

Lestrade wanted to ask what kind of occasion would possibly need homeless people to do that but he dropped the topic.

"And where exactly is this 'payment area'?"

"I'm not telling you that."

"It's illegal."

"But if it weren't for it, you’d be sulking around a shopping mall now, looking for a Christmas present for your wife instead of sitting here with a name and an address."

"How did you-"

Lestrade closed his mouth and shook his head. He wasn't going to let Sherlock Holmes foray the conversation again. He got the identity of the victim, hooray, but now what? It seemed like another dead end. A drug dealer who happened to be on the run just happened to be the newest victim of a mad killing spree. Sherlock smiled smugly. The man had realized something Lestrade hasn't. Irritation bubbled up again.

"If I were you, I would play your cards close to the chest. Detective Inspector Gregson may come barging into your office an time." Sherlock noticed Lestrade's shoulder tense.

"Ah," He said with a mildly pleased tone. "Rivalry is it?" He scanned Lestrade's office swiftly.

"You and Detective Inspector Gregson graduated the police academy together, yet he was promoted to a Detective Inspector earlier than you. Am I right?" Without waiting for Lestrade to reply, he continued.

"And this is your first big case in your new position. You consider yourself experienced. You don't like to just  _solve_ a case. You want to conduct your investigations swiftly. However, you aren't exactly a hasty type. In fact, I can tell from the state of your shoelaces and the way you align those files," He indicated the case files neatly placed on his desktop "that you are a persistent person that likes to keep things organized. You have the patience but when it comes to solving cases, it's a different matter. You want to make up for the time you lost and catch up with Gregson as soon as possible." Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Lestrade just stared back at Sherlock with an incredulous look.

"Then there's your recent marriage. Yes, I know it's recent because there's a slightly thin line above your wedding ring. You're engagement ring must have been smaller and stopped right about where your current ring is. I say married for four months by the state of the tan. You haven't talked to her for two days. You leave early and come home late. By the way, one of her ex-boyfriend is a PE teacher. I'd look out for him if I were you."

Lestrade pushed his chair slightly away from his desk.

"That was freaky…"He breathed.

"I get that a lot."

"What are you, a stalker, a hacker, or a psychic? How did you know?"

"I didn't  _know_. I saw it. And I also saw on the way to your office, the Serious Crime and Organized Crime Command were in a bit of a hustle bustle. They're investigating after Samuel Carter, aren't they? Mr.  _Carter_? Ring any bells? As soon as Gregson hears word that one of Carter's men was found dead, he would demand you to show the investigation report. A friendly warning." Sherlock smiled.

Just then, there was a knock on the door. Lestrade braced himself. He thought it was Gregson but it was Sergeant Donovan.

"Sir," She peeked inside. Her eyes briefly stopped on Sherlock. "I'm sorry for interrupting but we found another body."

Lestrade sprung to his feet. So did Sherlock. Lestrade began to follow Donovan out the door but was stopped by Sherlock.

"I'm coming with you." He said as-a-matter-of-factly.

"No. You're a civilian." Lestrade declared but the young man gazed back at him firmly.

Lestrade felt slightly intimidated by the determined expression. He sighed.

"Look, I appreciate your help but you did enough. I thank you for that, but I can't let a civilian into a crime scene."

"Then consult me."

"What?"

"Investigation teams occasionally consult civilians with various field of expertise." Sherlock reasoned calmly. Lestrade scrunched his face up.

"Okay, what do you _expertise_ in, exactly?"

"I'm a private detective."

Lestrade widened his eyes and laughed.

"You?"

Sherlock didn't change his expression. Lestrade's smile vanished. A few moments ago Sherlock Holmes had just demonstrated of his strange profiling skills. He had to admit that the aberrant chap had some keen-edged observation skill.

"Besides," Sherlock said in a suppressed voice. "You might need an extra free pawn or two like me if Gregson comes into the picture. Won't you?" Lestrade weighed a few seconds for consideration.

"Fine, you come with me but do not say anything to anyone about how you got the name for me. You understand? You are to join the crime scene today as a  _special profiler._ "


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Origin story of how Sherlock Holmes came to work with Scotland Yard.  
> Greg Lestrade is newly promoted to Detective Inspector at the Homicide and Serious Crime Command.  
> A serial murder investigation leads to one problematic young man of the name, Sherlock Holmes.  
> Sherlock is a junkie and Lestrade is a desperate detective with a bad smoking habit.  
> The two must work together to find a serial murderer without pissing off half of Scotland Yard. The latter part of the task is the hardest part.  
> (Sherlock in the image of the pilot episode. Massive face-off with Anderson ensues.)

"A bloody garbage dump." Anderson breathed with disgust.

He shook his head and folded his arms as he gazed at the crime scene. As a forensics specialist, Anderson had grown accustomed to brutal murders but he never could comprehend what made people do such a thing.

The body was that of a woman in her thirties. She was found naked and scarred just like the others. Anderson turned to see Detective Inspector Lestrade and an unfamiliar man dressed in a long coat climb out of a car.

"Sir," Anderson began as he eyed the stranger curiously. Lestrade gestured at the tall young man.

"Sherlock, this is Sergeant Anderson from the forensics team. Anderson, this is Sherlock Holmes. He will be assisting our investigation as a special profiler."

Anderson widened his eyes. Special profiler? He's never heard of such term other than in movies. The man seemed so young and inexperienced, not to mention fatigued. Anderson hid his bewilderment as much as possible and held out a hand.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes."

The taller man flashed a casual smile but his eyes weren't smiling.

"Please, call me Sherlock."

Anderson turned to Lestrade.

"It's the usual traits. Presumed to be dead for about 12 hours and no identification…" he started but was distracted by Sherlock Holmes, who drifted toward the crime scene without listening to Anderson's description.

Sherlock Holmes crouched at the foot of the bin and pulled out a portable magnifying glass from his pocket. He peeked into the bin and scrunched up his nose. Anderson gazed at him in silence. What could anyone find that the forensics couldn't, with a pair of naked eyes, a scrunched-up nose, and a small magnifying glass? He stared at the ridiculous man for a moment and then returned his gaze back at Lestrade, who seemed to be equally puzzled by Sherlock Holmes. Anderson wanted to ask Lestrade where in the world he managed to find such an amateur. Sherlock was closing in on the victim’s body which was now in a body bag. He opened it without hesitation. Anderson scratched his forehead in irritation.

"Found anything?" Anderson asked in a skeptical tone.

Sherlock scanned his surroundings in one flourish, which made the tail of his coat swing.

"One or two." He said mischievously.

"Care to share it?" Lestrade asked and stuck his hands into his pocket.

Anderson sensed that the relationship between Sherlock Holmes and Lestrade was not a very formal one. Lestrade's tone was strangely laid back. Sherlock Holmes twisted his lips into a half pout, as if to be contemplating hard on something. Anderson folded his arms. He doubted Sherlock Holmes could provide anything new to him.

"Why a rubbish bin?" He asked spontaneously at the two. Lestrade and Anderson exchanged befuddled glances.

"What do you mean?" The detective inspector asked.

"Why did the killer throw it away?"

"Because it's going to decompose?" Anderson suggested in a cold tone. Sherlock shook his head.

"Look at the way he marks his prize. Surely, no one would throw a masterpiece like that away in the dump."

 Lestrade's brows twitched as he tried to comprehend what the special profiler was saying.

"I'm sorry, what masterpiece?" Anderson asked uneasily.

"I'm talking about the body, of course! The killer handled it with care. He fed them, kept them clean until it was ready to be bruised and scarred thoroughly.” Sherlock breathed and shook his head almost as if he was in awe. "He poured all his attention and time into this. I can tell that he loves his work very much. It's a state-of-the-art stuff. Now why would he throw them away like this all of the sudden?"

"Are we talking about the same thing? Because that's a body lying there in case you haven't noticed." The forensics officer shifted in his foot uncomfortably. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

"So? She's dead, end of story." Sherlock and Anderson glared at each other for a few seconds before Lestrade cleared his throat.

"Sherlock, could there be a possibility that the killer keeps the victim’s skin as a memorandum? Surely the body is of no great value to him then, is it? What's the point of circling around such a small detail? The killer's a crazy. And  _that_ is the end of story."

Sherlock whirled at the detective inspector.

"Wrong, the smallest details are the most important. The killer may be a crazy but he's not a stupid. He knows what he's doing. He strips them of everything. He even cleans the body before throwing them away. No wonder you guys are so slow with identifications. So my question is, why dump it? _Why?_ "

"No idea." Lestrade shrugged awkwardly.

He was starting to regret letting Sherlock into the crime scene. The young man was burdening them with trivial matters when they were supposed to be identifying the body. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but before he could utter a single word, Lestrade broke in.

"And right now, we should be paying more attention to the bigger picture."

Anderson nodded in agreement from behind Lestrade.

"Like what?" Sherlock scowled.

"Like finding out who she is. Where she lives and all that."

Sherlock snorted in disinterest. Then he narrowed his eyes and lifted his chin up provokingly.

"Okay then, you want to know where she lives. I'll tell you where she lives." He abruptly pointed to his right. "She lives in that direction, within 2 kilometers radius. You could start questioning from there."

There was a moment of silence as the two officers tried to follow what in the world Sherlock was saying. It was Anderson who broke the silence.

"How do you know?"

"I didn't  _know_. I saw it. As a matter of fact, I literally saw her around here before. In that Tesco over there.”

…

Sherlock smoked idly by the car as he watched Anderson and Lestrade approach the front door of the Woods resident. Mrs. Woods open the front door. Curiosity and confusion flashed across her face. Then, as Sherlock expected, the woman started shaking her head and covered her face with her hands. Mr. Woods emerged from the back of the house to see what the commotion was all about. He hugged his wife closely. Lestrade bowed his head and turned back toward the car. Anderson escorted the couple to his car. The detective inspector approached Sherlock with a grim expression. Sherlock dropped the cigarette butt to the ground and stamped on it carelessly. The two climbed back into the car.

"They took it harder than I expected." Sherlock remarked as Lestrade turned on the engine.

"They just lost their only daughter." Lestrade growled as they trailed behind Anderson's cruiser.

Mr. and Mrs. Woods were huddled in the back seat. Sherlock clucked his tongue carelessly and looked out the window.

"Dull."

Lestrade wanted to say something at Sherlock but didn’t know what.

...

Sherlock flipped through all previous autopsy files as he sat in the hospital lounge and waited for Lestrade to come back from the autopsy room. Sherlock liked this killer. All the victims were carefully branded. Sherlock could see that he loved his work. And a lover type is always careful not to be caught.

The problem for Sherlock was to how to convince Lestrade to keep him in the investigation team. The latest victim had no connection with the previous victim and she was easily identified. Now what? Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table. It was almost lunch time and the doctors and nurses were flooding into the lounge. He checked his watch and wondered when Lestrade will finish with the comforting and all the other mushy business. He decided to head for the smoking area. Just as he gathered the files and stood up, a small figure collided into his back. Sherlock whipped around to see a young woman dressed in a lab coat.

"Oh, I'm sorry." He said politely but the girl was blabbering hastily.

"I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to- I wasn't paying attention. You don't need to apologize. Really, it's my fault. Are you okay?"

Sherlock blinked. The mousy looking girl looked half in panic. He held up his hand reassuringly.

"It's okay," He looked at the name tag on her chest. "Dr. Hooper." He added. The girl suddenly blushed.

"Oh, thank you. No one's called me a doctor before

Sherlock frowned. He was slightly annoyed. Surely, his deduction could not have been mistaken. It says nice and clearly on her name tag that she was a doctor.

"Why, are you not one?"

"Well, I am of a sort. I'm an intern. I do post-mortems so none of my 'patients' are alive to call me a doctor."

Sherlock cocked his head to one side. _Yes, that made perfect sense._  
Dr. Hooper flashed an awkward smile and stepped to the side.

"Well, um, I'd better be going." She said and started to walk past Sherlock when an idea clicked inside the private detective's head.

"Wait," He called out after her. Hooper jumped a little. "Do you do forensic pathology then?"

The intern blinked.

"Yes, that's my expertise."

A smile broke across Sherlock's face. He strode toward the doctor and held out a hand.

"I'm Detective Siegerson from the Metropolitan Police Service. I just came here in place of Detective Inspector Lestrade to receive an autopsy report on a case he's been working on?"

"Oh!"

Sherlock's lips curved upward. There was a hint of recognition in her eyes. She knew Lestrade.  _Bingo._  

"I'm sorry, you haven't received it yet?" Sherlock shook his head. "I'm really sorry, Detective. It must have completely slipped out of my head."

Sherlock marveled at the girl. If she was in charge of handing the reports to the police, she should remember that she had unmistakably handed the reports to Anderson a few hours ago. Yet, she was blaming herself for the slip and completely believed Sherlock's lie. Either she was a really dull girl or a frighteningly naïve one.

"Please, wait right here. I'll go get it right away."

"I'd appreciate that. Thank you Dr. Hooper." The girl blushed again.

"Please, call me Molly." Then, she dashed off out of the lounge and toward the corridor. Sherlock sat back in his.  _Molly Hooper, what an interesting girl._

The intern dashed back toward Sherlock, hugging the report closely to her chest. She must have sprinted all the way down the corridor and back because she was panting rather heavily. Sherlock thanked her politely and checked the front page of the report. It was exactly the one he wanted; the autopsy report on Margret Woods.

"I'll make sure it won't happen again."

"It's no problem." Sherlock shrugged. He eyed Molly Hooper curiously. He contemplated what else she could do for him. Then, he wondered how long Lestrade was going to keep him waiting. "Say," He started. "Would you like to have a drink?"

Molly blinked incredulously at Sherlock. The young man slightly furrowed his brow. He had just offered her a drink because she looked completely exhausted from the trip across the hospital, but Molly Hooper looked as if she was struck by lightning.

"Erm," She bit her lips and after a short pause she replied, "Sure." Although she had caught her breath quite a while ago, her face was still pink. Sherlock shrugged and gestured at the chair in front of him. "Oh," She said faintly and took a seat.

"Coffee?" Sherlock asked casually as he stood up and turned toward the espresso machine. Molly nodded.

"Yes, thank you."

"Sugar and milk?"

"No, thank you." She flashed a polite smile at him.

Sherlock strode toward the machine and served a cup of coffee for Molly and another for himself with sugar in it. As he came back to the table, he noticed Molly nervously eyeing the pile of files that Sherlock had left on the table along with the newly received report.

"It's the third one this month." Sherlock began causally as he sat back in his chair and handed the cup to Molly.

"Any sign of a breakthrough?" Molly asked. Sherlock leaned back on his chair and let out a sigh.

"Nothing so far." He tried to sound as disappointed as possible. Molly's face dropped.

"Oh."

"So, how long have you been an intern here?"

"Oh, I just started a few months ago."

Sherlock studied Molly for a while. The girl squirmed uncomfortably under his intense gaze. Finally, he gestured at the files in front of him.

"Then, you executed some of these autopsies?"

"I only stood by them. Dr. Gables is in charge."

"All of them?"

Molly nodded back. Sherlock drew his cup to his mouth to try to conceal the pleasant smile. What a coincidence this was.

"So that means you two examined the Margaret Wood case too." Molly nodded again. "Perfect." He muttered to himself. Molly looked at him curiously.

"Did you find anything unusual? I guess I could read your report but discussing it with you will be quicker."

Molly straightened up in her seat and cleared her throat.

"Well, we couldn't find much. It was just like all the others, but…" She licked her lips.

"Yes?" Sherlock pressed on.

"She was pregnant. 4 weeks old."

"Oh, I see." His tone dropped and to Molly, it must have sounded as if Sherlock was disappointed about the unfortunate news. However in actuality, Sherlock was disappointed more because the news didn't really interest him. Sherlock drummed his fingers again. He really wanted to smoke now. This was getting nowhere. Just waiting like this wasn't his style. He wanted to go back to Lestrade's office as soon as possible and read all the case reports.

"Are you all right?" Molly asked cautiously. Sherlock snapped back from his thoughts and turned to Molly.

"Yes, I'm fine." He said with a faint smile.

"I bet it's really hard." Molly began with a sympathetic tone.

"Hm?"

"The investigation. I bet you have to be tough to keep up with all of it."

"Being tough isn't enough. You have to be sharp too."

Molly nodded and eyed Sherlock shyly. Sherlock stared right back at her with a cool complexion. Molly’s face turned into a darker shade of pink. She cleared her throat and looked at her watch.

"Oh, I've gotta go now." She let out a nervous laugh. "It was nice to meet you, Detective Siegerson."

She stood up. Sherlock winked at the doctor and said suavely,

"Hope we can meet again soon." Molly's shoulders tensed. "I might need your help again."

Molly Hopper smiled, turned sharply on her feet and hastily shuffled out the lounge. Once Sherlock watched her disappear around the corner, he stood up and hurried toward the smoking area. He was gasping for smoke.

…

Just when Sherlock was about to light his second cigarette, Lestrade strode into the smoking area.

"Do you mind? Mine’s empty." The Detective Inspector asked.

Sherlock stuck his hand in his coat pocket, drew out a pack, and offered it to Lestrade. The older man plucked a roll and placed it in between it lips. The two flicked their lighters simultaneously and lit their cigarettes up.

"What did they say?"

"They were half expecting the news." Lestrade sighed heavily. "She went missing two weeks ago."

"And she became pregnant four weeks ago."

Lestrade frowned and turned to the younger man.

"How did you know that?"

 Sherlock merely shrugged in response. He decided not to tell Lestrade about his encounter with Molly Hooper. Lestrade exhaled deeply.

"I still don't understand how you do that, Sherlock."

"Science of deduction. It's a useful skill if you're working in the police." Sherlock smirked.

"But you're not."

"Ah, well" Sherlock took a long drag before he uttered, "and yet here I am."

The two stood in silence for a while before Lestrade asked,

"What were you doing before you started working as a PI?"

"A bit of this and that." Sherlock answered vaguely. "I worked in a bank once. Did a year in the European Union embassy too. Then after that, I did a bit of legal assistant work here and there. Didn't last much. I never liked the job. Too dull." Lestrade laughed at this.

"Some people work their arses off the get that kind of position."

Sherlock extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray.

"Waste of time."

Lestrade studied the private detective. Sherlock Holmes was one strange man.

"So you think being a private investigator's more exciting?"

"It depends on the case. I only take the interesting ones. Unlike my previous occupations, I get to choose what I want to do. It's more fun that way."

Lestrade felt the back of his neck stand up.

"You think this is fun?"

Sherlock turned his cool gaze at Lestrade. He betrayed no emotions toward the officer.

"Yes." He said bluntly.

Lestrade sighed and put out his cigarette too. Then, he turned to Sherlock as he began to speak calmly and firmly,

"Sherlock, people are actually dying and we're partly responsible for it because we failed to prevent the crime. Our duty is to protect our citizens. That's the whole point of our service and I take pride in it. If you consider this to be some kind of a game then I will refuse to allow you into our investigation any further than this."

Sherlock smiled at this.

"Not to worry, Detective Inspector. I'll be taking a few days off. I've got some plans for the holidays. Besides, I advise you to do the same. Or your marriage will sour up by New Year's." Sherlock patted Lestrade's shoulder causally. "Call me if you find anything. Though I doubt the killer would do anything for a while. He takes approximately a week and a half to two weeks of break in between murders. Our next victim is being fed oat meals and bread even as we speak. Afternoon."

He said in a rather cheery tone as he exited the smoking area.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Origin story of how Sherlock Holmes came to work with Scotland Yard.  
> Greg Lestrade is newly promoted to Detective Inspector at the Homicide and Serious Crime Command.  
> A serial murder investigation leads to one problematic young man of the name, Sherlock Holmes.  
> They must work together to find a serial killer without pissing off half of Scotland Yard. The latter part of the task is the hardest part.  
> (Sherlock in the image of the pilot episode. Massive face-off with Anderson ensues.)

Sherlock was nodding off to sleep at the family room couch. It's ironic that it's called a family room when none of his family members were there at the moment. Mother and Father were in the kitchen bustling around with the Christmas roast. Mycroft was on his way straight from work.  Sherlock used to nestle in this couch as a child with a scar or two from the bullies and a book in his hand. He was an energetic boy and never settled down. The only time he did was when he was reading. Mother used to give Sherlock books that he might be interested in, and keep him busy while she ran her own errands.

Nearly 20 years later, Sherlock was at the exact same spot, all by himself and without a book. Instead, an empty needle was in his hand. He could hear the faint cheerful chatter of Mycroft and Mother's voice. The two spoke a lot. Sherlock had no idea what they talked about all the time. He didn't really care. Mycroft was always Mummy's boy.

"It's always you that saddens Mummy." A voice suddenly said coldly.

Sherlock opened his eyes and saw Mycroft staring down at him with an outstretched hand.

"Give it to me." He demanded in a low growl.

Sherlock tossed the needle lazily at his brother. Mycroft caught it and flashed a dangerous look down at Sherlock. Sherlock stared back with empty eyes.

 

"I will always be there for you, Sherlock. But never in this house can you do this." Sherlock's eyes drooped. Mycroft shook him. "Do you understand?" He demanded but the younger Holmes flung his arms out and threw Mycroft's hand away from him.

"Don't touch me." He scowled and grabbed his coat. Before Mycroft could say anything, Sherlock burst out of the Holmes Estate.

Sherlock had rented a car to come here. He stepped on the axle and drove away from the house as quickly as he could. He knew that coming back for Christmas was a bad idea. What was he thinking? His fingers drummed the steering wheel impatiently. He pulled out a cigarette at the traffic lights and lit it. He breathed in heavily and sighed. Smoke wafted in the car. The rental store had strictly asked him not to smoke in the vehicle but Sherlock didn't care at the moment. Nothing mattered. He wished the holidays would end. He even wished for a brutal murder for his Christmas present.

…

Mrs. Lestrade kissed him in the cheek when she opened her Christmas present. He hugged her back and the two smiled at each other like that for a while. After long hard days of work handling grim murders, staying at home with his wife felt like a completely different world, and Lestrade loved every single moment of it.

They started off with a slow morning, enjoyed their Christmas shopping, and had a wonderful time dinner which they prepared together. Lestrade couldn't believe he hadn't talked to her properly for more than two weeks.

Just when he pecked her cheek back and started to open his own present, his mobile buzzed. Lestrade tensed his jaws but business was business. He couldn't ignore it. He eyed his wife apologetically and stood up. As soon as he entered the kitchen room, he answered the phone.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," He heard a faint rasp from the other side of the line. Lestrade frowned.

"…Hello?" A deep voice breathed out from the other side. It was a familiar voice.

"Who is this?"

“Holmes, Sherlock…Holmes." The voice sounded strangely labored.

"You alright? What's going on?"

"Car crash." Lestrade almost dropped his phone.

"What?"

"I, ah…I need someone to pick me up."

"Where are you?"

A gasp of pain came from the other side of the line.

"Sherlock are you hurt? You should call the hospital."

Sherlock didn't reply immediately.

"No, I'm okay. I …I just need to get back to my flat."

"Sherlock-"

"Please,” The voice was weak.

"Where are you?"

Sherlock breathed out the address. It was a twenty minute drive from Lestrade's place. Sherlock's breathing was heavy and there was something obviously wrong with him, but Lestrade knew that the young man was being stubborn.

"Alright, I'll be there as soon as possible."

"Don't call the ambulance." Sherlock mumbled. "Or the police…"

"You already have." Lestrade answered but the line went dead.

Without a word, he burst out of his house.

…

Sherlock gritted his teeth as he took another attempt to yank his foot out. A searing pain jolt up along his shin bone and toward his pelvis. He groaned in agony. The bleeding was worsening and the bitter cold was doing no good. Shards of glass slashed the right side of his face. If it weren't for the air bag, his skull would have been shattered to pieces by now. He closed his eye to avoid blood getting into his eye.

The drug was still in his system when he drove away. His car had drifted off the road and collided into a tree head first. Sherlock's foot was trapped under the wreck. Though he was fully conscious, his head ached from whiplash. He thought of calling Mycroft for help but decided against it. An ambulance was out of the question for he didn't want to get filed again. Who else was there? He pulled out his mobile from the coat pocket and looked at the list of contacts. It was risky, but there was only one person he could ask for help.

The street was empty. When he heard a car pull up nearby, he immediately knew it was Lestrade. Seeing the crumpled hunk of metal, the officer dashed toward Sherlock.

"Sherlock! Are you alright?" Lestrade managed to pry open the driver's seat door and held his breath.

"Fine, I'm fine." Sherlock face was a mess of sweat and blood.

"I'm calling the ambulance."

"No!" Sherlock shouted but Lestrade snapped back at him.

"Shut up Sherlock, this is serious!"

The younger man looked mildly surprised by Lestrade's outburst. He blinked away the sweat and sighed.

"I want to smoke."

 

"I'll get you one later. Right now, just try to explain to me how the hell this happened."

…

When Lestrade ducked into the room, he was greeted by Sherlock Holmes with a bandaged face and a cast on his left leg. He sat up when he saw Lestrade and grimaced. The officer folded his arms and gazed down at the tattered man. The right side of Sherlock's face was completely wrapped in gauze and Lestrade could only make eye contact with Sherlock’s left eye.

"How bad is it?"

"Fractured bone, concussion, and cuts around the face." Sherlock shrugged.

"You really slipped?" Lestrade asked dryly. Sherlock blinked. "You didn't, did you?"

 Sherlock didn't answer. Lestrade pulled a chair beside Sherlock and folded his legs. "Sherlock-"

"What did your wife get you?"

"What?"

"Christmas present."

"I don't know. I didn't get to open it yet."

"Go home." Sherlock murmured. "I owe you one. But right now, I don't want to talk about it. Enjoy the rest of your holiday."

Lestrade opened his mouth to say something but Sherlock's light blue eye twinkled at him pleadingly. It was mixture of shame and fear. Lestrade sighed.

"Sherlock, I know we just met, but you have a problem." He began. Sherlock didn't change his expression. "I think you need help. I know it's not for me to say this but you really need to stop taking dr-"

"I'm not an addict."

"Yes, you are.” Lestrade pressed quietly.

There was a moment of silence as the older man stared at Sherlock with a concerned look. Sherlock avoided eye contact with Lestrade.

"Just-just call me when you find something new." Sherlock murmured, pulled his bed sheet up, and turned his back toward Lestrade. Lestrade stood up hesitantly and left the room.

When he got home, his wife was asleep on the couch with the lights on and a book tucked under her arm. He looked at his watch. It was half past 12. He gently placed a hand on her shoulder. He looked at the coffee table and saw a half opened parcel he had abandoned that evening. He took it gingerly in his hand. He peeled away the wrappers to find a black elegant case. He flipped it open to find a pair of sunglasses. He smiled.

"Are you home?" A voice mumbled from beside him. Lestrade turned his head and looked up to see his wife staring at him with sleepy eyes. He kissed her on the cheek and waved the sunglasses in front of her.

"Merry Christmas, honey."

…

It was exactly two weeks later when another body had turned up. Just like Sherlock said. Lestrade stared down at the body with pursed lips. It was abandoned in the middle of the street just like John Douglass. The victim, to Lestrade's surprise, was a teenage boy. A strange sense of anger welled up inside him. He squared his jaws and turned to Sergeant Donovan.

"We're going to announce a curfew."

Sherlock turned on the small telly in his flat and his lips curved upward when he switched to the news channel. Lestrade's face was on the screen as numerous cameras flashed at him. The officer seemed cool and in control but Sherlock noticed a slight waver in his eyes. He took a drag from his cigarette and smooshed the butt into his ashtray. His ankle had more or less healed and apart from the slight scabs left from the cuts on his face, he was ready to work. Sherlock stretched his legs in front of him and aligned his fingers. There must have been another body, and this one had provoked Lestrade to announce a curfew.

_A young victim then…_

Sherlock's mind reeled. He itched to grab his mobile and contact Lestrade but he held himself back.

_He would call me eventually._

Sherlock stared at the stash of cocaine left on the table. Then, he switched his gaze back to the telly where Lestrade was still talking about the progress of the investigation. He snatched the stash and stuffed it into the back of a drawer.

…

As soon as Lestrade got back to his office, he was greeted by an unhappy looking Chief Inspector.

"What the hell were you thinking, Lestrade?"

Lestrade straightened his back and tried to look as confident as possible.

"It was the best thing to do."

"The curfew, yes. But you didn't have to hold a goddamn press conference for it!"

"With all due respect Sir, there's a dangerous killer out there." He said firmly. The Chief Inspector shook his head.

"Lestrade, you made a big mistake. It's been only a few days since New Year’s and the press has absolutely no story to work on. Did you even think for one second how many would pounce on this? They would tear us to shreds, Lestrade. They’ve already been nagging at us for months!"

Lestrade's superior towered over him, but Lestrade stood firmly in his place.

"Detective Inspector, you are relieved of your command. You need to rest."

"What?" Lestrade objected.

"You need to cool off. I know you've been working hard for the past few months but frankly, there is no progress here. I'm handing the case over to Gregson. His investigation against Carter was put on hold a few weeks ago. He can manage. You are to assist him."

"Sir, this is just-"

"Lestrade," The chief inspector looked firmly at him. "This is an order."

Lestrade bit the inside of his cheeks until it bled.

...

Gregson snorted as he closed the files and handed the pile back to Lestrade.

"What do you make of it?" Lestrade asked with a bitter feeling in his stomach.

"Typical serial murder. I have no idea why it would take so long to catch a single lunatic, Greg." He said with a sigh and tossed the last file onto Lestrade's desk. Lestrade bit his lower lip.

"It's not typical. The murderer is careful to leave no trace."

"But there  _is_ a pattern. His MO is always the same. It's so persistent, there's no way you could miss it!" Lestrade shot an annoyed look at Gregson. For some reason he was more intolerable than Sherlock Holmes. "Look, I only took this case because our testifier, Fred Porlock went missing. I shouldn't even be on this case if it weren't for you. I should be searching for a missing man, goddamit. Don't give me that ungrateful look because you bloody well owe me one." He grabbed a file and tapped it in front of Lestrade.

"Let's start from him, shall we?"

Lestrade looked at the name of the victim.

"John Douglass, you mean the drug dealer case? What about it?"

"He's connected to Samuel Carter." Gregson said in an isn't-it-obvious tone. Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Tobias, please don't merge your case with mine." 

"No, as a supreme investigator of this case, I think you should cooperate with me in exchange for burdening  _my_ investigation. The only reason why I agreed to take this case is because one of the victims was connected to Carter. I think I ought to hit two birds with one stone."

Lestrade clenched his fist but fought hard not to lash out. If he did, he would definitely be suspended from the investigation and that was the last thing he wanted.

"The deaths are all  _random_." Lestrade said through his gritted teeth.

…

"Why would he do that, they're all random." Sherlock remarked over the mobile phone as he flicked through the newspapers lazily. He was feeling rather well today since he got a fresh stash and just took a shot of heroine.

"I know, that's what I told him." Lestrade said in an exasperated tone. "He won't listen."

"Of course he won't. He's just posing as a new chief investigator and you as his assistant, but in reality you might as well be suspended." Sherlock sniffed. "A bit dull of you to not notice such an obvious point." 

"I'm well aware of that, Sherlock. Thank you." Lestrade sighed.

"You're just worried that even as you speak, the killer's on the loose, feeding the next victim with oat meals." Sherlock noted.

"Yes, well deduced." The inspector answered with a slightly irritated tone. Perhaps calling Sherlock wasn't a very good idea after all. Suddenly Sherlock broke off into a silent chuckle. "What," the elder man snapped irritably.

"Oh no, nothing…" Sherlock's voice trailed off but Lestrade could tell that he was still stifling a laugh. "Sherlock, are you on something again?" No reply came. Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock, you need hel-"

"You're the one that needs help, Lestrade. The best solution available at the moment is to obey Gregson's orders and help his investigation. As soon as you get him out of the way, the sooner you can regain your position."

"What, you want me to go looking for a missing junkie? You have to be kidding me. He could be anywhere. He could have even run out of the country by now!"

"If you're in need of help you know where to find me."

There was a click and the line went dead. He hated how Sherlock always changed the topic to his own advantage.

...

Luckily for Lestrade, Fred Porlock was found a few days later. Unfortunately for Gregson, Fred was found dead. Sherlock he was promptly summoned to the scene by the two baffled investigation officers. Sherlock knelt down beside the body which was abandoned in the middle of a woodland. He sniffed at the body and scrunched his nose up.

"He's been dead for a while. Looks like the killer didn't want him to be found this time." Sherlock murmured as he lifted his head to look around. "But his pride kept him from burying the body. That's strictly against his policy. But why?"

He gazed up at the surrounding officers but none of them replied. Sherlock shrugged. He examined the skinned areas and the bruises.

"It's a perfect masterpiece, just like any other. Then why would he try to hide it like this? Wouldn't he want to show it off?"

Gregson shot an uncertain glance at Lestrade. This special profiler that Lestrade consulted made everyone uneasy. Suddenly, Sherlock began to pace around the body, his coat flicking behind him. He pressed his fingertips together and placed it under his chin, muttering to himself. Lestrade worried if Sherlock had taken something again, but his eyes seemed to be fully alert and there was no sign of cloudiness. Suddenly, Sherlock came to a stop. He looked at Lestrade, his lips thin, eyes wide and face paler than usual.

"Stupid," he murmured in a low voice.

"I'm sorry?" Gregson asked. Sherlock paced around the body again. This time, his gestures were frantic and he was scratching his head.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" He blurted and advanced toward the officers. Intimidated by Sherlock's raging complexion, they all cowered back. Even Anderson backed away. "Lestrade, this is absolutely outrageous!"

Gregson nudged at Lestrade as if to say, "do something about this maniac."

"What are you talking about?" Lestrade asked hesitantly.

"Don't you see? These murders are not  _random_!" Sherlock exclaimed. Then, his expression of delight and realization suddenly shifted into shame and despair. "I can't believe I've made such an easy mistake. This is just so  _stupid_." He said more to himself and he began to drift into the back of the woods, completely induced in his own world. Lestrade grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"Hold on, what do you mean they aren't random?"

"It's random  _on purpose_. No wonder the details fit in perfectly. I thought it was weird with all the scattered crime scenes and the bodies and now this."

Gregson turned to Lestrade.

"What's he rambling on about?"

"Shut up, I'm thinking." Sherlock snapped as he paced behind Gregson.

Lestrade tried hard to hide his smirk. It was only a few minutes later when Sherlock finally came to a stop and stooped beside the body.

"I think I can catch the killer." He started. "But I need a bait. If I'm right, you'll have the killer behind bars in a week."

As they climbed into their cars to head back to Scotland Yard, Lestrade begged Sherlock to elaborate what he meant by "random on purpose".  The young consulting detective merely rolled his eyes and placed his head against the window. He heaved a sigh.

"Stop rubbing it on to me, Lestrade. I know I made a mistake, okay?"

The detective inspector frowned at this word.

"What are you talking about?"

Sherlock groaned and pressed the heel of his left hand into his eye.

"Come on, Lestrade, it's not funny."

"What-"

"I WAS WRONG, OKAY?" Sherlock roared. Lestrade widened his eyes incredulously.

The young man was enthusiastic a few moments ago. Now he seemed very sour and irritable. Noting the elder man's alarm, Sherlock softened his features and placed his head back onto the window.

"How would I know if all the details and evidence were laid out so that they would point to one direction?" He sighed again. "I should have known. It was too easy, too simple, too  _elegant_." Sherlock rambled on.

Lestrade kept an ear pricked up toward Sherlock as he kept his eyes on the road.

"So you're saying that we were all set up to believe that the killer appeared randomly?"

"No, I'm not talking about his whereabouts. I'm talking about the victims. They aren't random." Sherlock squared his jaws. "It would be quicker if I demonstrate it rather than explain it. I need to talk to William Dale."

"You mean the new drug dealer?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"I need to check something."

"Well you bloody well aren't going there alone."

Sherlock flicked an annoyed look at Lestrade.

"You aren't coming with me since your face was all over the telly the other day."

Lestrade shrugged.

"Fine, I'll assign someone then."

…

A few days later, Sherlock and Anderson tread into the shadows of the tattered flat. The two didn't say much as they crept up the stairs. As soon as they arrived to a door at the end of the corridor, Sherlock held up his gloved hand. Their breaths turned into white whisps in the cold. Anderson was shivering. Sherlock eyed him with an annoyed look.

"Can't you breathe quietly?"

Anderson scowled at him in return. Sherlock huffed and reached for the door knob.

"Wait, what in the world are you doing?" Anderson hissed and grabbed the consulting detective's wrist.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again and stuck his free hand into his pocket.

"I said I need to talk to him. How am I supposed to do that if we don't go inside?" He explained as he rummaged around his pocket and pulled out a lock picker. Anderson eyed the instrument with an alarmed expression.

"That's breaking and entering, you idiot!" Anderson hissed.

"Oh shut up." Sherlock muttered. "If you're so uncomfortable with it, just stay outside."

Anderson made a strange gawking noise and tried to pry Sherlock's hand away but the detective was a swift lock picker and the door came free before Anderson could utter another protest. The detective slipped inside swiftly. The officer swore under his breath and followed. Sherlock seated himself on the couch and folded his legs as if he was relaxing at home. Anderson placed a hand over his face and huffed.

"We need to get out of here right now. I thought you were just going to confront him at the front door. Why in the world did you have to break in?"

Sherlock looked up at Anderson with a questioning look as if Anderson had just said something incredibly stupid and he had trouble comprehending it.

"What, and let him run away? Please, Anderson, like anyone would approach a stranger looming over its front door." Sherlock brushed his coat and stood up again. "Now, you stand over there." Sherlock pointed to the side of the couch. "And I will stand over here. Your job is to stay as silent as possible until he arrives. Okay? That's all you have to do."

Sherlock locked the front door from the inside and flashed an awkward smile at him. Anderson grimaced but placed his hand on his holster for precautions. Sherlock flicked off the lights and the two stood in complete silence.

"Oh, this is stupid," Anderson started to complain. Sherlock shushed him. Anderson tried to object but he was shushed again. Realizing that it was no use, he bit his tongue and stood there in silence.

It was fifteen minutes later when there was a distant footstep and a jangling noise of keys. Anderson saw Sherlock's figure shift in the darkness. The forensics officer gulped. The door knob started to turn. Sherlock silently stepped back. Anderson did the same. Light flooded inside the room as the door cracked open. Anderson realized that he was in plain sight of the entering man. He panicked and looked for somewhere to hide. Suddenly, there was an alarmed yelp. Anderson jerked his head toward the noise to see Sherlock tackling the man from his back and wrapping his neck with some kind of a rope. The man clawed at his throat and gargled.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?" Anderson bellowed.

Sherlock ignored and kept on strangling the man. He kicked at the back of the man's knees and the man fell down. Sherlock was careful too keep the noose tight around the man's throat as he pulled out a handcuff from his pocket and quickly restrained Dale's hand. The drug dealer's face was a dark shade of red. Anderson hurried toward the man  but Sherlock pushed him away. Once Dale's hands were immobile, Sherlock kicked the man in the back. It was only then that he let go of the rope. The man gasped for air as his face hit the floor. Sherlock roughly placed a foot over his back and pulled out a cigarette and casually lit it. Noticing Anderson staring at him with a horrified look, he raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

"What, I was gasping."

Before Anderson could say anything, Sherlock dropped his gaze down at William Dale and nudged him in the back with the heel of his shoe. The man groaned.

"Who's in charge of accounting?" He demanded and took a drag from his cigarette.

Dale only whimpered. Sherlock sighed and dug his heel deeper into Dale's back.

"Come on, answer me."

Only a gargle came in reply. Sherlock blew out some smoke and rummaged under his coat.

"What the...!" Anderson gawped as he saw the young detective draw out a gun.

Sherlock flung him a warning look. Anderson stooped at the place, completely terrified. The slender fingers wrapped tightly around the handle as he pressed it behind Dale's head. Dale started squirming but Sherlock stepped onto his back even harder.

"I want the name in five seconds. Four, three, two,"

"Sherlock stop it!" Anderson screamed. "I swear to god if you shoot him Lestrade is going to-" Suddenly, Sherlock swung the gun point toward Anderson with a menacing look.

"Shut up." He growled. "Or all of you will be dead."

Anderson took a step back with his hands raised above his head. Sherlock ground his teeth irritably and kicked the drug dealer again.

"Tell me now!" He shouted.

Dale whimpered. Sherlock cocked his gun. Anderson pull out his own gun when Dale screamed,

"Edward Simons! So dammit, don't shoot me!"

"Who manages the staff?"

"That's his job too." Dale blurted.

Sherlock grunted in satisfaction and knocked Dale out with a swift swing of the gun in the head. Then, he slipped out of the room without saying anything. Anderson took several seconds to recollect himself before he dashed after the mad man. Sherlock marched out the flat and into Anderson's cruiser without saying a single word. He had thrown the cigarette butt onto the street and stepped on it before he mounted the car. Anderson climbed into the driver's seat, his heart still thumping. Sherlock was already fastening his seat belt. Anderson shoved at Sherlock angrily.

"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?" He roared. Sherlock shot an annoyed look at Anderson. "WHAT WERE YOU GOING TO DO IF SOMETHING WENT WRONG?" The officer shouted at Sherlock but the young man merely glared at him with a coldly.

"We already messed up, you git." He spat at Anderson. "You mentioned Lestrade and my name in front of him. We're all in danger."

Anderson's blood rushed away from his face.  _Just shut up or all of you will be dead._ Anderson finally understood that Sherlock's statement wasn't a threat but a real warning.

"Thanks to you, your whole investigation team's face will be cracked in no time."

…

Anderson and Sherlock returned to Lestrade's office half an hour later. Anderson's face was white as sheet and Sherlock looked very agitated. Lestrade wondered if it was one of his drug-induced mood swings again. It turned out that it wasn't. Sherlock slammed his hands onto Lestrade's desk, making the detective inspector jump. 

"I want to talk in private." Sherlock demanded and threw an accusing glare at Anderson.

Lestrade blinked several times and nodded. Anderson let out an aggravated sigh and reluctantly left the office. Lestrade looked up at Sherlock who was now pacing around the office. He closed all blinds and turned to the detective inspector with a serious expression. 

"Sherlock, you're scaring me."

"I need you to do exactly what I say." Lestrade's eyebrow twitched in confusion. "Understand?" Sherlock pressed.

"What the hell are you-"

"I said do you  _understand?"_

Lestrade's mouth opened slightly but he nodded.

"Call your wife."

"What?"

"Just call her!"

"Now?"

"Yes, now!"

Lestrade pulled out his mobile phone. Sherlock looked as if he would strangle him if he didn't do as he was told. 

"Tell her to evacuate immediately."

"What?" Lestrade blurted in confusion as he waited for the line to connect. 

"Tell her not to go to any friends' house. A hotel would be safer." Sherlock ordered.

"Wait, what do you mean safer?" Before Sherlock could answer his question, there was a faint click as Mrs. Lestrade picked up the call.

"Greg?"

Sherlock stared intensely at Lestrade.

"Hi darling,." He said uncertainly.

"Are you going to be late tonight too?" Lestrade grimaced.

"Honey, there's something important I need to tell you." He started. Sherlock nodded.

"Tell her to pack her things and get out of there within an hour."

"I want you to pack your things and evacuate immediately to a hotel."

"What?" His wife said in a tone very similar to Lestrade's just a few minutes ago.

"It's urgent and I don't have time to explain, but you need to get out of the house right now. Don't go to anyone else's house. Just check into a hotel."

"And tell her to inform you of her whereabouts next week." Sherlock instructed.

Lestrade placed a hand over the receiver.

" _What?_ " He hissed.

Sherlock merely shook his head and glared at him with a stern look.

"And tell stay there until next week. Don't tell me where you're going. Just stay there, okay?"

"And she is not to contact you until so."

Lestrade flung a horrified look at Sherlock.

"Greg, what's going on?"

"It's security protocol. I can't have you calling me until then."

" _What?"_  

Lestrade winced.

"I know, I'm really sorry but grab whatever you need and just go, okay? I'll explain it to you when it's all over. Love you." Before he could hear her say anything, Sherlock grabbed the phone and turned it off.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed and stood up. "You bloody well ought to have a good explanation for all this. Are you high?"

Sherlock handed the phone back. Lestrade snatched it back with a huff.

"Lestrade," Sherlock began. "You are in danger. Anderson leaked our names. Sooner or later, he'll come for you."

"Who?"

Sherlock threw his hands up in the air.

"The killer!" He dropped his hands back to his side and started to pace around again. "I was going to use myself as bait but Anderson lost it and started blabbering names."

"What, you mean the serial killer?" Lestrade frowned.

"Yes, obviously, what other killer could we be talking about?" 

"I'm not following, Sherlock. What does that drug dealer have anything to do with the killer?"

"Don't you see?" Sherlock advanced toward Lestrade, his tall figure towered over the elder man. "The random deaths are designed to be part of an organized crime. Those were all sacrifices. The killer's just acting like he's enjoying it. The two drug related deaths weren't a coincidence. That was their primary goal. The other victims are just cover ups."

Lestrade let out a weak laugh.

"You're kidding, right? That's crazy. That's just plain crazy."

"I know!" Sherlock exclaimed. "No wonder you lot haven't caught him yet. We were chasing the wrong person all this time. The evidence were laid out meticulously. Anyone would have been tricked." Sherlock stopped pacing around. "Anyway, they know that you're investigating them thanks to Anderson. You need to keep yourself safe. I'm supposed to be the main bait."

"Hold on, main what?"

"It's the only way to catch the killer. I was going to interrogate the main members of the drug trade. Leak my name out and draw attention to myself. A private detective investigating a drug lord; that would've worked, right?" Sherlock flashed a manic smile and grabbed Lestrade's shoulder.

"Yeah, that might...what?"

"But it seems they're locked on to both you and me."

 


	5. Chapter 5

Anderson felt queasy when he remembered the intensity of Sherlock's gaze as he turned the gun toward him. Those were not the eyes of a sane man. The sergeant watched Sherlock Holmes hurry out of Scotland Yard and hail a cab through Lestrade's office window. His superior seemed to have noticed his discomfort and cleared his throat.

"Do you mind telling me what happened tonight? Sherlock seemed a bit edgy about it."

Anderson turned to Lestrade who was now lazily swerving around in his chair lazily as he fiddled around a pen. Despite being told that his life was in danger, Lestrade seemed calm and relaxed.

"That man is insane, Sir." He blurted. "He broke into Dale's flat, pulled out a gun, and interrogated him. With all due respect, consulting Sherlock Holmes is not your greatest idea. He's obviously not even a _profiler,_ for heaven's sake!"

Lestrade sighed and placed his pen down.

"You're right," He began. Anderson relaxed his shoulders. "He's no profiler. He's too brilliant at what he does." The forensics officer gawked at this. Lestrade looked up at him and grimaced. "For the time being, trust him."

"He's psychotic! What if he hurts someone, what if-"

"If that happens I will take full responsibility, but he's given us more leads than we could have ever found ourselves. He's certainly more helpful than Gregson."

"Sir," Anderson started warningly. "You don't understand…"

Anderson feared his boss is prepared to hire a devil if it meant outrunning his rival. Being suspended from the investigation, must have clouded Lestrade's judgement and moral compass.

"Trust me on this, Anderson." Lestrade flashed a smile at him and flourished toward his office door. "Keep up the good work."

Anderson stared at his superior for a few seconds before he turned toward the door reluctantly. As he placed a hand on the door, he turned toward Lestrade.

"Sir, I…" Anderson licked his lips. "I'm sorry for the slip today. I didn't mean to…"

"I know you didn't." Lestrade said with a nod. "It's all fine."

…

A few weeks later, another body emerged and Gregson was furious because it was a teenage girl.

"What's the point of having a curfew if teenagers are getting killed?" He growled as he watched the body getting sacked into a bag.

"He's mocking us." Sherlock murmured.

Lestrade turned around to see Sherlock standing behind them with a grin.

"And what are you smiling about?" Gregson snapped at the young detective.

Sherlock shrugged and pulled out a slip of paper.

"I forgot to tell you about this. I'm sure it will help with your Carter case. These are the list of names involved in London smuggling business. I'm sure you never heard of some of them. I trus you to put it to good use."

Gregson snatched the paper away from Sherlock's gloved hands and opened it. His eyes widened as he scanned through the list. His mouth gaped open. So did Lestrade's.

"How did you…?" The chubby detective inspector asked. Sherlock shrugged.

"I have my sources."

Eyeing Sherlock suspiciously, Gregson tucked the list into his pocket. Sherlock flashed a fake smile at him and then turned toward the body which was now being carted into a vehicle.

"Now, I'm pretty sure we'll find nothing new on the autopsy, but let's head to Bart's anyway, shall we?"

Gregson shot an annoyed look at Sherlock but didn't say anything. Despite the fact that Sherlock Holmes was a mere _special profiler_ , no one dared to override his authority in this investigation. They had to admit that Sherlock Holmes was more help than nuisance. The investigators scuttled to their cars. As Sherlock mounted into Lestrade's car, the detective inspector grabbed the young man's wrist.

"How did you get all those information? " Lestrade demanded. "Even our top investigators couldn't get half of the names in there."

"It's me, Detective Inspector. Does it surprise you?"

Sherlock tugged at the seat belt. Lestrade noticed a wince flash across the younger man's face as he tugged. Lestrade pulled up Sherlock's left arm sleeves.

"What happened to this?"

He asked as he indicated Sherlock's heavily bandaged left arm. Sherlock tugged it away and smoothed the creases on his clothes.

" _Nothing_."

"It's not nothing." Lestrade insisted and remembered Anderson's warning. "Sherlock, I don't want you to push yourself too hard. If you keep violating the law to help us, I'll need to let you go."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Please, it's called an undercover investigation."

Lestrade heaved a sigh.

"Well, whatever the bloody mess you went through, don't do it again, alright?"

"Don't worry, I don't need to. All is ready to go." 

"What?"

"They took the bait. Sooner or later, they'll be after me. All you have to do is keep an eye on me and when the killer pounces, you can get them red-handed." Sherlock breathed excitedly.

Lestrade squared his jaw and grumbled as he started the car. 

…

As expected, they couldn't find anything new from the autopsy. Molly seemed to be getting the hang of post-postmortems as she filled the investigation team on the what they found without the presence of her supervisor. Sherlock listened to each detail intently and asked some questions. Molly provided him with the answers swiftly. The consulting detective nodded while the two other detective inspectors stood in the back with folded arms.

After a few minutes of this and that, Gregson excused himself saying that he had some other work to do. Glad that his rival was finally out of the scene, Lestrade heaved a sigh of relief. As the two strode out into the chilly air, Lestrade bit his lips.

"So, what do we do now? Wait?"

"No," Sherlock said as he pulled out a smoke and lit it casually. "The waiting part's over."

He offered a pack to Lestrade, who took it gingerly. He promised his wife that he would stop smoking as a New Year resolution, but since he won't be seeing her for a while, he decided it wouldn't hurt.

"By now, Carter's fretting that someone leaked information to the police. They'll be after me in no time." Sherlock breathed and smiled at Lestrade gleefully. "Get someone to keep an eye out for me." Lestrade nodded."You be careful too. Keep in mind that Anderson exposed your name too. Not to mention you're face is rather well-known thanks to that press conference. Though I'm sure Carter's not stupid enough to launch an attack on the police. But you know," The tall man shrugged. "Just in case."

...

He noticed a new mail in the inbox. It's been a while since he received one. There was a name typed into it.

" _Sherlock Holmes_ "

He echoed in his mouth and tasted the words. It felt weird. He scrolled down to see several pictures. The slender man seemed younger than the usual targets. They usually stank of power and money but this man didn't seem so corrupted. He had a slight hint of eccentricity and intellect that seemed too sharp for his liking.  He certainly didn't like the flourish in his fashionable coat and the piercing gaze. The look in his eyes reminded him a bit of himself. There was a manic shine to it that only hiskind had. Oh he did not like this one. This would certainly be a tricky one. As he scrolled down to the very last photograph, something else caught his attention. He double clicked the photo to enlarge it. Sherlock Holmes was standing next to another man. The hairs around the hairlines were starting to grey. He licked his lips. He's seen that man somewhere. It was that officer who was investigating him. All the sudden things became more interesting. 

" _Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade_ "

He liked the sound of it. It certainly tasted better than Sherlock Holmes. 

…

A week passed and nothing happened. Sherlock paced around the office impatiently.

"I don't understand." The tall man huffed.

Lestrade was sitting at his desk, watching the consulting detective walk up and down with a tired look.

"You can't expect things to happen so rapidly."

"Are there any new bodies?"

"It's only been a week since the last one."

"Oh this is _tedious_."

Anderson, who was in the corner of the room, scoffed at this exclamation.

"Oh shut up, we should be happy that no one's dead."

Sherlock waved Anderson away.

"Were there anyone around me that seemed suspicious?"

Donovan, who was in charge of Sherlock's surveillance gave a shrug. 

"Apart from you? No."

The young man shot an annoyed look at her and then waved outside Lestrade's office.

"What about Gregson? What the hell is he doing anyway?"

"He's investigating the names that you gave him. I got to thank you for that. He's completely preoccupied with his other investigation."

Lestrade smiled. Sherlock stopped pacing.

"Did he say anything about it?"

"No, why not?"

"The idiot." Sherlock muttered in agitation. Anderson, Donovan and Lestrade exchanged confused looks. "He should have realized by now that more than half of them are either dead or missing."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

"They are?"

"Yes, obviously," Sherlock threw his hands up in the air and started pacing. "The killer got to them before you lot could. Some have been dead for more than 2 years. Gregson's going after a dead end. I was hoping he would realize it by now and start searching for the bodies."

 Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf from Lestrade's chair and started for the door.

"Where are you going?" Lestrade asked. 

"Bored!"

…

It was all dark by the time the consulting detective arrived back to his flat. He had to go quite a distance to get what he wanted. He had been off it for nearly four weeks and set a new record. It was shame to break it but he couldn't help it. His hand shook as he pulled out a pack from his coat pocket and threw it on the table. He shrugged off his coat and jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and he searched around the flat for what he needed. He opened his bathroom cabinet and found an unused needle. He flicked the plastic bag once and stared at the white powder. He knew the drill. He waited for that familiar sense of warmth as he pressed the plunger all the way in. Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled. 

For the first time, Sherlock felt guilty for his action. All of the sudden, an unfamiliar sensation filled his chest. He frowned and stared at the remaining stash. Sherlock shot to his feet. He was thirsty.

_Strange, this never happened before._

He stumbled toward the kitchen. As he turned on the tap, his knees gave in, and breathing became difficult. The edges of his vision blurred and he felt ill. It's been a while since he last did this. Had he overdosed?  _Is this what this is? An overdose?_ He's overdosed before but this felt nothing like it. 

He grabbed the edge of the kitchen sink and gritted his teeth. After a few seconds of grunting and heaving, he managed to pull himself up but vomited into the sink. He grabbed his phone. It was ringing. He looked at the caller ID as he spat bile from his mouth. He turned the running water off and heaved a few deep breaths before leaning against the wall. He pressed the phone against his ear.

"We just found another body." Lestrade's voice rang in his ear. Sherlock winced. "This time in Soho." Sherlock slid to the floor with a groan. "Sherlock, you hear me? Are you up?"

The detective tried to open his mouth to say something but his lips were numb and his tongue felt like they were blown into four times its usual size. His vision became completely white for a second before it returned back to normal. All he could do was breathe into the receiver.

"You alright?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock shook his head as he collapsed."Sherlock?" But Sherlock wasn't listening. The phone skid across the floor. Sherlock's heart ached for oxygen but his body would not move. He wished Lestrade would bloody realize what was wrong before he blacked out.

..

Lestrade frowned at his mobile for a while before a dreadful thought dawned upon him. As Anderson approached him, Lestrade stuck his hand out at his forensics officer and barked, 

"Give me your phone, I'm calling Donovan."

"Sure. Something wrong with your phone?"

"Sherlock broke off."

Anderson scoffed at this.

"Hardly anything to worry about?"

Lestrade didn't bother to react to his comment. He took Anderson's mobile and dialed Donovan as he held his own against his other ear as well. Not even a peep came from Sherlock's side.

"Sir?" Donovan answered in the first ring. Good girl.

"Are you still in your position?"

"Yes, sir."

"Get inside Sherlock's flat. Now. I think something happened to him." 

"What?"

"I said go! Now!" Lestrade barked and several officers in the crime scene turned their heads to his direction to see what all the fuss was about.

"Right, I'm walking up to the flat." Donovan informed as there was several shuffling noise from the other side. Lestrade paced impatiently around the crime scene. There was a jingle of keys and several more noise. 

"Sir, I'm in-Jesus." Donovan's voice dropped suddenly. 

"What?" The detective inspector demanded. 

"Sir, I need an ambulance.Now." 

Sally Donovan knelt beside Sherlock and patted his cheeks. 

Sherlock's complexion was an alarmingly pale shade and his throat gurgled to inhale oxygen. 

"Oi," Donovan called out roughly at Sherlock as she kept one ear on her phone. 

"Is he okay?" 

"No, he's not breathing properly." 

Donovan's voice was shaky as she pushed Sherlock to recovery position. 

"The medic should be there in 5 minutes. Stand by. I'm heading there too." Lestrade said bluntly and hurried to his car. 

Hearing that her boss has arranged an ambulance and was on his way, Donovan placed to phone on the floor and peered into Sherlock's face. 

She lifted an eyelid and checked his pupils. They were blown out. Not a good sign. Sherlock let out a gurgle again and his fingers twitched. 

"For god's sake what have you taken?" She muttered more to herself and looked over her shoulder to find an abandoned serum bottle and a used needle. She felt a swarming sense of disgust in her gut. 

Sherlock wheezed and bile ran from his mouth, along his cheek, and onto the floor. Donovan looked down and groaned. 

"Ugh, please don't." She groaned and lifted Sherlock's chin to a different angle to keep his airway clear when she heard a distant noise of siren getting louder and flickering lights from the sitting room window. Shortly after, someone was buzzing the flat door. 

After checking Sherlock's breathing once more, Donovan went to get the door. She opened  the door to find a man dressed in a dark jumper and jeans standing. She frowned. 

"Where is the patient?" 

Before Donovan could answer, she was struck in the face with a fist. 

 


End file.
